Louise Allen Historical Collection

by Louise Allen

  ‘You are mollycoddling me,’ she had said, trying for a light tone, hoping he might say that he would come and drive her himself so they could be alone and she could watch him at work.

  ‘I am trying to look after you,’ was all he would say before he strode off. Breakfasts were becoming increasingly precious. Dinners were formal, just the two of them. More lessons in conversation, table manners, formality that continued into the evening and careful discussions of neutral topics over the tea tray, with the pulsing awareness of the bedrooms upstairs always at the back of her mind. And then the wonder of lovemaking and the lonely comfort of a luxurious bed.

  ‘Mrs Trubshaw’s, my lady,’ the groom said, pulling up in front of a cottage with a sagging roof and an overgrown garden. ‘You said you wanted to start here today.’

  ‘Thank you, John.’ Bella got down and made herself think about something she did have some control over. Mrs Fanshawe had told her all about the Trubshaws. Father had run off when pursued by the gamekeepers for poaching and had not been seen for seven months, the eldest daughter had a wasted leg and could only get around on a crutch, the son was rapidly heading along the same path to crime as his father and Mrs Trubshaw was pregnant with the baby due at any moment.

  ‘A challenge, this household,’ she murmured to Gwen, who was carrying the basket Bella had packed that morning. Cheese, bacon, butter, some clothing, baby blankets and money should all help, but only in the short term.

  The boy answered the door, dragging it open and staring sullenly at the visitors. ‘Good morning. Is your mother at home?’

  ‘Aye. My lady,’ he added as Gwen raised a hand to cuff him. Bella took a deep breath of fresh air and walked into the smelly, stuffy cottage.

  ‘That is a list of the repairs that I can see, so far.’ Arabella pushed the paper across the desk to Elliott. ‘I’ve been to the cottages where Mrs Fanshawe said the family’s need was greatest, so I may not have seen the worst of the buildings yet.’

  Elliott picked up the list and studied it. Not only were faults listed, but often their cause. Damp walls with plaster peeling: dense shrubbery too close and broken guttering, he read against one entry. ‘You would appear to know what you are talking about,’ he commented. ‘I will get Turner on to these repairs at once.’

  ‘It is merely a matter of observation,’ Arabella said. He could tell she was nervous of his reaction; her hazel eyes were fixed on his with too much concentration. He had hoped, now that their lovemaking was pleasurable and relaxed, that she would relax with him during the day also, but somehow, with those fears laid at rest, she was more, not less, distant. It was as well; this was exactly the kind of companionable, undemanding marriage he could expect from a wife who had been raised for it. And here is the list of men and boys wanting work.’

  ‘I’m thinking of re-laying the carriage drive and there is almost half a mile of wall needing repair, so I should be able to give most of them some labouring, if nothing else.’ Elliott took the second piece of paper, reached to put it on another pile then focused on one name. ‘Young Trubshaw?’

  ‘He is only thirteen,’ Arabella said. ‘With his father gone he needs to be working, not hanging around getting into trouble.’

  ‘He does that. I’m not sure about him. Are you a soft touch for a pair of big brown eyes and an air of spurious innocence, Arabella?’ Her earnest look made him want to go around the desk and kiss her.

  ‘Willie Trubshaw looks about as innocent as a weasel,’ she said, making him laugh. ‘And I prefer blue eyes,’ she muttered.

  ‘Are you, by any chance, flirting with me, Lady Hadleigh?’ Elliott enquired, keeping his tone light despite the way his breath hitched suddenly, inexplicably.

  ‘I wouldn’t know how,’ she admitted with a candour that made him laugh. ‘But I am certain you could teach me.’

  ‘I don’t think you need lessons, I think you have the instinct,’ Elliott said, wondering if locking the study door and taking her here, now, on the hearthrug might not be thoroughly satisfactory. ‘And you are blooming, my dear.’

  And that was no lie. Her bosom was delightfully rounded, the colour was in her cheeks, her hair was glossy and the slight curve of her stomach was unexpectedly attractive. He glanced at the hearthrug, his whole body tightening in anticipation.

  ‘Oh.’ Now she looked apprehensive at what she must be able to see in his face. Elliott got a grip on his desire. This was no way for a sensible married man to behave, and his wife was not a lightskirt to be tumbled on the rug.

  He glanced at the pile of letters and invitations on the corner of the desk. His friends were seeking his company, writing to congratulate him on his marriage, inviting the Hadleighs to stay, hinting that they would be only too delighted to make her ladyship’s acquaintance.

  Under normal circumstances, and with any other bride, he would have happily invited a houseful of them. After a couple of weeks of marriage he would have had no qualms about leaving for a day or two to attend a boxing match or a race either. But the thought of inflicting a houseful of sports-mad, fit, exuberant, sophisticated men on Arabella was ridiculous: she would be terrified of them. They would cheerfully flirt with her, which would alarm her, talk about people and places she had no knowledge of and fill the house with noise and activity when she ought to be resting.

  Elliott shovelled the whole lot into a drawer. ‘Just do not overdo it, my dear,’ he said and she nodded, apparently meek. How relaxing life was now that he had a compliant wife, regular sex and he was getting a grip on the estate and Rafe’s chaotic affairs. Why, then, did he feel that something was missing?

  ‘I thought you might like it if we took the gig and a picnic and went and explored the estate today,’ Elliott said at breakfast the next day. Bella looked up, startled, from thoughts about how successful her breakfast strategy had been. She had hardly dared hope she could lure him away from his study every morning, but the delights of a proper cooked breakfast did not seem to have palled on her husband yet. If she could just get him into the habit, she thought, he would begin every day with a proper meal. Men were, in her limited experience, creatures of habit. Perhaps one could train a husband? Her mouth twitched at the thought of trying to tame Elliott.

  The pointers had taken up their positions on either side of the fireplace and Toby was sitting on her toes, quivering with eagerness for a titbit. Bella surveyed the room with satisfaction: this was what a marital breakfast should look like. Even her wretched morning sickness seemed to have subsided and it was no longer a matter of willpower to remain in the same room with so much savoury food. Almost thirteen weeks, she thought. Her back ached a little and she was sure that at any moment her condition would become obvious to anyone who looked.

  ‘A picnic? I should like that very much.’ He smiled at her and she smiled back, a warm, happy sensation that she could not quite put a name to settling around her heart. She loved that smile—lazy and assured and intimate. He really was the most dreadful flirt when he put his mind to it, she thought fondly. Elliott was being so good to her. The odd mood she had sensed in the nursery had not come back, he appeared to be satisfied with her in bed and his teasing kisses kept her in a state of quivering anticipation. She must continue to study to please him; he would not regret his honourable action if she could possibly prevent it.

  ‘I know a very secluded spot,’ Elliott began, something warm and heavy in his voice that had her looking at him in wild speculation. He couldn’t mean to make love to her outside, could he?

  ‘The post, my lord,’ Henlow said, proffering a salver laden with envelopes. ‘And yesterday’s Times and Morning Post.’ He placed a much smaller pile of envelopes beside Bella’s plate. ‘For you, my lady.’

  ‘For me?’ Who would be writing to her here? Papa. ‘Thank you, Henlow.’ She sat regarding the post warily. Her day had hardly started and now she must read her father’s justified reproaches. Doubtless he would have disowned her. Bella turned over the top letter, then another and
another until she had reached the bottom. She recognised the handwriting on none of them. The relief was intense.

  But who were they from? The wax splintered as she opened the first. Madame Mirabelle, Exclusive Ladies’ Milliner of Worcester, begged the Viscountess of Hadleigh would forgive her presumption in writing to felicitate her ladyship upon her nuptials and entreated her ladyship to summon her to attend upon her at any time with a selection of hats the equal of any to be found in London’s Bond Street.

  The next was from George Arnold, Shoe and Boot Maker to the Nobility and Clergy, also soliciting the favour of her ladyship’s attention. Then there was a haberdashery store, a portrait painter and a furniture warehouse.

  Bemused by the notion that her spending power was great enough to attract so much interest, Bella set them to one side and picked up another with a London frank. The one under it was similarly stamped. ‘London? I do not know anyone in London.’

  ‘That will be my paternal aunts, Lady Fingest and Mrs Grahame, writing in response to my letters to them,’ Elliott said, glancing up from his own post.

  Bella opened the first. Lady Fingest expressed herself delighted that her nephew had married and extended an invitation to visit at the earliest opportunity. Her bride gift was on its way and she did trust dear Arabella would find it of use. The second, from her sister, was in similar vein.

  ‘They do not sound at all distressed that you have married a nobody,’ she said to Elliott.

  ‘I told them that you were a daughter of the church and a paragon of virtue. I have no doubt that they are so delighted that I am settling down respectably that the fact they have never heard of your parents is a mere detail.’

  ‘But I’m not a paragon,’ Bella said miserably after a swift glance round to make sure all the footmen were out of the room. ‘The baby—’

  ‘Which is another reason why we are not going up to Town until February. We can but hope that he is a small baby and can appear convincingly premature after an interval of a couple of months. People will do the sums, but by then it will be old news.’

  ‘But Lady Abbotsbury will know and tell them.’

  ‘I am sure she knows—there is nothing wrong with her eyesight or her ability to add up. I expect to get a stiff lecture and then to be forgiven. She likes you—she will not want to damage your reputation with the family.’

  Reassured, Bella turned to the last letter. ‘It is from Mrs Baynton in response to your invitation for next Wednesday. She says they will be delighted. I am so—’

  ‘Hell’s teeth!’ Elliott flung a sheet of heavy, embossed writing paper down on the table, narrowly missing the marmalade. Bella craned to see it; there was an embossed crest with what looked like a mitre and crossed crosiers. ‘Your father has written to the bishop, complaining that I have seduced you away from your home and duty and demanding that he annul the marriage forthwith.’

  ‘He cannot! Can he?’ Bella gasped. Twinges of pain shot across her stomach and she flattened her hand to it. ‘Elliott?’

  ‘No, of course he cannot. There are no grounds. You were single, of age and of sound mind. We told no lies in obtaining the licence. The bishop expresses himself quite satisfied with our application. However, he wants to talk to me—presumably he is not happy to have an incumbent from another diocese threatening scandal.’

  ‘I am so sorry.’ She gazed at him, aghast. ‘I never dreamt Papa would do anything but disown me.’

  ‘He has lost his unpaid housekeeper, has he not? And you are out of range—this is the only way to punish you,’ Elliott said. ‘I will go to Worcester today; Bishop Huntingford invites me to stay until Monday.’

  ‘So long?’ She felt bereft. And guilty. So much for being a suitable viscountess.

  ‘I can hardly march in, insist he fits this into his doubtless extremely busy schedule and then bolt back here. If I stay for Saturday he will not want me to travel on a Sunday, so that will make it Monday. But it will give me the opportunity for a discreet word about your father—we will be able to nip any scandal in the bud, do not fret, Bella.’

  ‘What if Papa complains to his own bishop?’

  ‘Then he will write to Huntingford who will reassure him—all the more reason for me to put some effort into it now. I am sure your bishop is only too well aware of the foibles of his own clergy.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose he must be. Oh!’ The cramp clenched at her belly again. ‘Elliott—’

  ‘What is it?’ He was on his knees beside the chair, one arm around her. ‘The baby?’

  ‘I don’t know. Cramping pains. Not severe,’ she said, trying not to panic. ‘Twinges under the skin. But I have never felt anything like it before.’

  Elliott got to his feet and yanked the bell cord. ‘Henlow, send a groom for Dr Hamilton immediately. Tell him it is urgent. He’s a good man,’ he said, turning back to her.

  ‘I am sure he is.’ Bella did her best to smile. ‘I will just go up to my sitting room.’

  ‘You will go to bed.’ Elliott scooped her out of her chair and carried her across the room. ‘We will say you pulled a muscle by standing awkwardly just now. All right? I will tell Hamilton to say nothing that might give the staff any other impression.’

  ‘Yes, Elliott. That would be best.’ She laid her head on his shoulder and tried to keep calm while the fear clawed at her heart.

  Elliott paced outside the door, cursing under his breath. He wasn’t supposed to be doing this for another six months and here he was, thrown out of his own wife’s bedchamber by Hamilton when Arabella needed him.

  She had been so brave, only the painful grip on his fingers while she lay on the bed waiting for the doctor betrayed her agitation. ‘It is not a bad pain,’ she kept reassuring him, as though he were the one to be worried about. ‘Only I have no idea whether I should expect it or not.’

  Hamilton had come quickly, that was one mercy. If anything was wrong with the baby Arabella would be bereft and he couldn’t do a damn thing to help her. He felt frustrated, helpless and angry. Damn Rafe. If he hadn’t seduced Arabella she would be blamelessly at home in Suffolk, he would be engaged to Freddie and in control of his life and not pacing…

  ‘My lord?’ Dr Hamilton came out smiling and Elliott released the breath he had held from the moment he saw the door handle begin to turn. All quite normal and nothing to be alarmed about. It is a pity Lady Hadleigh has no female friends or relatives to confide in.’

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘I am as ignorant on the subject as she is. However, I hope Mrs Baynton and she will form a friendship. I am sorry we had you over here on a wild goose chase, Hamilton.’

  ‘Not at all. As well to be safe, not sorry, my lord. Your wife is in excellent health, I am glad to say. However, if you would like me to call every few weeks or so, I would be more than happy to do so.’

  ‘Thank you.’ With Anne Baynton and Dr Hamilton both aware of Arabella’s secret she should worry less, he was sure. ‘I will be happier when we can abandon this pretence about the pregnancy,’ he added.

  Hamilton nodded. ‘It will start to show in about another week,’ he said. ‘Perhaps if I call in a fortnight, just to check things out?’

  ‘Thank you,’ Elliott said, shaking hands. ‘I must confess to finding this a somewhat unnerving experience.’

  ‘Oh, it gets better after the third one,’ the doctor said, still obviously amused by Elliott’s nerves. ‘I’ll show myself out, my lord.’

  Elliott went to open the door into Arabella’s room and stopped, his hand on the handle. All he had cared about, he realised, was Arabella. He had not worried about the child, only the effect it would have on her if she lost it. The treacherous thought had even flashed into his mind that if she did miscarry, then they could have another. His son. What kind of wretch does that make me? he wondered, resisting the impulse to kick the door panel out of sheer self-disgust. The child she was carrying was his blood, his nephew—somehow he was convinced it was a boy—he should be prepared to do whatever it
took to keep it safe.

  It was his duty. Elliott fixed a smile on his lips and opened the door. Duty. And what a cold word that is.

  Arabella was sitting up in bed, looking relaxed, and he felt his smile relax, too, into something almost genuine. She was such a trouble to him, yet he could not resent her.

  ‘I am so sorry to cause a fuss,’ she apologised. ‘Doctor Hamilton was very kind and explained that it was quite normal to have those little cramping pains at this time. He says it is my body adjusting itself to the growing baby.’

  ‘You were not to know, it must have been alarming.’ Elliott sat on the edge of the bed and held her hand. ‘And now you had better stay in bed for the rest of the day, nursing your fictitious bad back.’

  ‘I suppose I had,’ she agreed ruefully. ‘I will plan what to do with the decoration of this room. I have to admit to becoming very weary of pink and frills, which, when you consider that at the vicarage I had a room half the size of my dressing room here, with faded chintz curtains and a rag rug on the floor, is very ungrateful of me.’ Her mouth thinned as she looked around. ‘I suppose Rafe had a very conventional view of female tastes.’

  ‘Of some female tastes, certainly,’ Elliott said drily.

  ‘That is true.’ He saw her give herself a little shake as though to push away an unpleasant memory. Then she frowned; obviously another troubling thought had arrived. Elliott made a conscious effort not to frown too. This marriage business, this being aware of another person’s feelings and moods and fears all the time, was unsettling. He had not realised how much a wife would take over his thoughts.

  ‘I wonder how Papa is managing without me,’ Arabella said.

  ‘Doubtless he will hire a housekeeper. He will be able to select one to suit his temperament.’

  Arabella chuckled. ‘How very gloomy’ Elliott watched her face as sadness took her again. He wanted to make it go away, but couldn’t think how to. ‘He wasn’t always like this, you know. When we were little he was pious, of course, and quite strict, but there was laughter. I can remember flowers in the house and Mama singing and reading books that I am certain were not volumes of sermons.’